Snapshots
by LadyRhiyana
Summary: Miscellaneous DG odds, ends and oneshots. NEW: Nine Tenths: Draco's been stripped of his ancestral manor, and he'll do anything to get it back. And The Defector: A small prequel to Duty Bound. In a white room, Ginny debriefs a Death Eater defector...
1. No False Modesty

A/N – FashionPhotographer!Draco. As I promised. Light-hearted and more of a 'friendship that might lead to more' fic. I have invented a magical fashion designer named Mallorini.

12 Jan - fixed up my erroneous French.

Disclaimer – I don't own HP. Don't sue.

* * *

**No False Modesty**

* * *

It all began, she would say later, when Gabrielle Delacour was found (not for the first time) pumped to the gills with a narcotic potion, in bed with a man, another woman, and a house elf. The repercussions ran through the narrow French magical fashion world like shockwaves. Draco Malfoy, who'd been supposed to photograph her for the a layout in the Halloween _Fashion Witch _edition, blew his top –

"Great Goddess' tits!" he shouted, snatching off his five hundred galleon Mallorini charmed sunglasses and throwing them on the ground. "Save me from self-absorbed, air-headed models! Are there any beautiful women in this world who aren't alcoholics, junkies or nymphomaniacs?"

His personal assistants, well used to his periodic fits and rages, listened appreciatively to his extensive vocabulary and made wagers on the length of his tirade. d'Arcourt came the closest, with eight minutes, and two hideous china sculpture smashed.

"How am I supposed to have a photo shoot when I have no one to photograph?" he howled. "Get me a bloody model!"

The bright young men sprang into action.

* * *

"_Chere_ Ginevra," Jacques d'Arcourt said in his purring, gloriously French accent, "are you still looking for a change in profession?"

Ginny looked up from her waitressing, pushing back strands of long, unruly red hair. "Always," she said dryly. She ignored an American wizard who was rudely gesticulating and trying to catch her eye. "What's this about? Have you got a job for me?"

"Yes," he answered proudly, and she blinked in surprise. She had known Jacques for six months, and enjoyed listening, both fascinated and horrified, to his tales of the glamorous world of wizarding fashion. "Monsieur Malfoy ees 'aving 'ysterics. He needs a model, and quickly –"

"What?" she mocked. "What about Gabrielle?"

Jacques grinned cattily. "Out of the running, darling," he purred with enormous satisfaction. "She, er, 'ow do you say, pushed the limit, one too many times."

"_Excuse me, miss, can I have some service here?"_

"Are you serious, Jacques? You're really offering me a modeling job?"

"But yes, _cherie_," He smiled, pouring on the charm; if Ginny didn't know him so well, she'd think him angelically innocent. "Are you interested?"

"_Hello? Am I invisible? Can I have some service, please?"_

She laughed, and dismissed any wayward thoughts of fame and fortune. "No, no. Malfoy sounds like too much of a tyrant. He'd probably terrify me–"

"Bah. Show. All for show." Jacques flipped a dismissive hand. "In this business, it pays to be a leetle…eccentric. Ginevra, 'e is the best in the business. 'E can perform miracles, transform you from ordinary waitress into a supermodel. Listen – this is a chance you cannot pass up."

"_Hey, lady! I'm a paying customer! Leave off chatting with your boyfriend, will ya?"_

Ginny's mouth firmed. "Right. When do I start?"

"But right now, of course," Jacques smiled.

Ginny took off her apron, wadded it up, and tossed it into the obnoxious customer's face. As he sputtered and swore, she made a magnificent exit, her head high and her hips swinging with sexy, stylish attitude. Jacques watched her go, rubbing his hands together with glee.

* * *

Ginny watched him in action, this blonde-haired, fashionable god who could make or break a model's career with a single photo, or a single, skeptical sneer. Most models, Jacques whispered, were terrified of his unruly temper and his acid tongue; Ginny, however, had a temper of her own, and both feet firmly on the ground.

She was not intimidated when he swung around, pinned her with impatient, scowling silver eyes, and growled out, "Who the hell is this, d'Arcourt?"

"This is, ah, Ginevra, Monsieur Malfoy," Jacques stuttered. "She is a friend of mine."

For a moment, Malfoy was silent, and he stared at her very intently. She stared back confidently, and he began to walk towards her, his gait very slow, prowling, and graceful.

"Ginevra," he purred quietly, circling her, brushing close enough that she could smell his very expensive cologne. "Ginevra…Weasley, would it be?"

"That's right," she said proudly, staring him straight in the eye. "I didn't think you'd remember. It's been years."

"You have met?" Jacques asked in surprise. "You did not tell me that, Ginevra."

"Oh, I don't think I'll ever forget that red hair," Malfoy drawled. "It is so very…"

"It will show up beautifully on film," Jacques interrupted, sensing his finding fee slipping away.

Malfoy spared him one, speaking glance. Jacques fell silent.

"It _will _show up beautifully on film," Malfoy confirmed. "However, the rest of you – your skin, your hands, your clothes – Merlin's Blood!" he threw up his hands, "There is serious work to be done before we go anywhere near the cameras."

She scowled. He looked at her, one eyebrow raised, his eyes limpid and very carefully serious. "Once I am finished with you, Ginevra Weasley, you will be the most beautiful woman in the world. Is that not what you want?"

"Not particularly."

"Then you will be the first," he said cynically.

* * *

The rest of that day was a whirlwind progression. It began with a styling salon, where Malfoy handed her over to a painfully fashionable, gesturing male stylist named Claudio, who exclaimed with delight at the chance to unlock the potential of her hair. An hour and a half later, she was hustled outside, and down the street towards a skin care salon, and then into a number of other mysterious shops, where the proprietors came out to fawn over Malfoy and to look her over as though she were an animal on display.

"Why are they all looking at me as though I'm a horse for sale?" she whispered under her breath.

"They know that I have dropped Gabrielle," he said calmly. "They all wish to see who will replace her."

"Me?" she asked, rather stupidly. "But – it can't be that easy, can it? I mean, surely –"

"If I say you will replace Gabrielle, then you will. I have a lot of power in this world, Weasley –"

"Yes, you've always wanted power, haven't you?" she snarled. She was irritated, bad-tempered, because she'd been dragged around like a child all day; Malfoy turned to face her, his expression carefully neutral.

"Once, long ago. And then I learned better."

She stopped baiting him.

* * *

Modelling, she discovered, was harder than she thought. It was not just a case of posing and pouting, looking pretty for the camera. No. That would be too easy.

The photo shoot began with Malfoy informing her that the clothes she was modelling were worth far more than she would ever be, and that any damage would be taken out of her hide. When she glared at him, indignant, he merely walked away, clapping his hands and shouting out rapid-fire orders to his crew. She stood there, a human mannequin with no purpose other than to show off the clothes, while they scurried and bustled around her like ants.

Then, once the stage was set, Malfoy ordered her into the lights and began to position her this way and that, firing orders and directions at her –

_Turn your head, Weasley, no, not that far, fool, no, the other way – Great Goddess' tits! Don't you know anything?_

_No, I don't, Malfoy! I took on this job as a favour to you – _

_Do me a favour then, and take off if you're not 100 committed to this shoot._

_And if I do take off, where will you be? You're coming up quick on the deadline, Malfoy, and there's no one else in sight. If I walk…_

_Damnation, woman! Just do what you're bloody well told! Turn your head to the right, for all our sakes. And thrust your hip out a bit more, show us a bit more leg. Merlin's Balls. How hard can it be?_

She had a notion that models were supposed to look sexy, not glare furiously at the camera, but Malfoy seemed to be deliberately provoking her. Their mutual abuse flew as he baited her and she reacted every time – it reminded her of Ron, and Hogwarts, and the inevitable fights that occurred whenever Malfoy and her brother crossed paths.

Malfoy's crew, those who were not actively employed at the moment, were all watching with great interest – no one else, it seemed, would ever dare to provoke the great Draco Malfoy's wrath like she was. Well. She was not in awe of the great Draco Malfoy. She'd known him since she was eleven years old. She'd seen him hurt and humiliated more than once, had watched Professor Moody turn him into a ferret, had, in fact, inflicted a humiliating curse on him herself –

She did not need his approval. She'd made up her mind – after this shoot, she was going to find another, easier job. Glamorous or not, (and she had her doubts about that) big money or not, she had no intention of doing anything like this ever again.

It was too much hard work.

* * *

Unfortunately, Paris and the fashion world had other ideas.

As Jacques had said, so adoringly, Malfoy was a miracle worker. Raging, shouting prima donna that he was, his camera had turned her into a goddess –

Suddenly, she was inundated with offers. All the top fashion houses and huge cosmetics brands wanted her to be their figurehead, and Ginny, bewildered by the overnight fame, could not understand why.

Jacques, meeting her in response to an urgent message, was unsympathetic. "But is this not what you wanted?" he asked. "You are famous, Ginevra! You will be rich. You will set the trends, instead of following them."

"But I don't want to be a famous trend-setter," she scowled, almost sulkily. "I don't mind being rich, but this is too much! They're waiting outside my building. I had to disguise myself and sneak out over the roof!"

"Ah, bah!" Jacques threw up his hands dramatically. "You are as bad as Malfoy! You both despise your fame."

"Malfoy?" she asked.

"_Oui._ 'E despises the people who flatter 'im and make 'im famous, and the more 'e despises them, the more they adore 'im. And the more they adore 'im – well. You get the picture, yes?"

She did. When at last she stood up to go, she turned to ask Jacques one last question. He smiled, ruefully, and gave her the address of Malfoy's flat.

* * *

"How do you stand it, Malfoy?" she asked. "The superficiality of it all?"

He did not turn around. His house elves had been instructed to let her in, if she came.

"My father would be spinning in his grave, to see me now," he answered, pouring himself a stiff drink. "It was enough, in the beginning."

Draco had never been terribly fond of Lucius, but his father had always cast a long, influential shadow. Lucius had never approved of shouting and ranting, either – which was why, of course, Draco was so fond of it. When he was truly enraged, he became all too much like his father – his voice slowed to a drawl, his movements became languid and menacing. Knowing this, Draco did all that he could to avoid becoming truly angry.

"And now?" He heard her footsteps on the polished wooden floorboards, and then she sat beside him, on the other stool at his small fashionable bar.

He shrugged. "There are aspects that I truly enjoy. The camera, for one. I will always be a photographer, Weasley. Ever since I spent that interminable week shut up with Creevey…"

She gave him a sidelong, slightly worried look. "But shouldn't there be…more? Some more substantial purpose, other than beauty and fashion?"

"There are some people who say that the creation of beauty is a purpose in and of itself."

"But not you. Not Lucius Malfoy's son."

He did not dispute the accuracy of that statement. "No. But it pays the bills." He slid her a sidelong look. "Which should be your main concern, Weasley."

She snorted. "One day, you'll come up with an original insult." Reaching out, she snagged a crystal glass and poured herself a drink.

Companionably, they drank.

* * *

"Seriously," he said, much later, sprawled on his expensive leather couch in front of the fire, "d'Arcourt's not entirely a fool. Why not take this chance while you can?"

"Jacques says," she said, provocatively, "that you despise your fame, and that it makes them love you even more."

Draco sighed. "D'Arcourt says entirely too much." He turned his head to look at her, lounging on the floor in her baggy robes, with her manicured hands and two hundred galleon style cut. "You know, I always knew you'd be beautiful one day, Weasley, once you shed your mother's influence and your brothers' over-protectiveness. Look how right I was."

"No false modesty, huh?"

"There's no point in it." He laughed. "And nor should you have any, Weasley. You're a beautiful, confident woman. Enjoy what you have."

She smiled, and the firelight cast flickering shadows across her face. There was a moment of friendly, relaxed silence, as they watched each other and wondered.

* * *

A/N - Interesting trivia: this one-shot was originally titled 'Svengali'. However, when it turned into a friendship fic, I chose a different title.


	2. A Midwinter Marriage

Originally posted on LJ for Embellished. DG with a winter twist.

Disclaimer - I don't own HP. Don't sue.

* * *

**A Midwinter Marriage**

* * *

It was a midwinter wedding.

The ceremony had taken place at the Burrow just that morning, thanks to the insistence of the bride's family and friends, but after the reception, Draco swept his new bride off to spend their honeymoon on his family estate.

Together they Apparated to the edge of a wide, deep chasm in the mountains. Cold, damp exhalations of air gusted up from the abyss and icy winds whistled about their ears and tugged insistently at their robes.

"Are you sure about this?" Ginny asked uncertainly, clutching her robes tight about her. "I mean, what if it doesn't work?"

Draco laughed, grabbing her hand and pulling her close enough for a kiss. "Trust me," he said, grinning crookedly. "The Veil won't harm you. Malfoy magic looks out for its own."

She eyed the long, dark fall. "And what about everyone else?"

"Everyone else can go to the Devil." Releasing her, he stepped onto the edge and murmured something under his breath. All around them, the air began to shimmer and twist, as if an illusion was slowly dissolving into true reality –

Slowly, imperceptibly, the barrier that separated the Malfoy estate from the real world parted, and Ginny saw her husband's home for the first time.

It was beautiful.

Outside the wind howled, cold, damp and terrifying, but inside the barrier, thick flakes of snow fell in the calm, clear air, and an exquisite, perfectly contained landscape lay dormant and sleeping.

"Welcome," Draco murmured, "to the land beyond the Veil."

* * *

They stepped onto a snow-covered hill, and watched as the Veil shimmered and solidified once more, isolating them in their new world. Ginny turned her face up to the sky, spinning round and round in circles, her arms flung open with joy. "It's so beautiful," she said, turning to Draco, her eyes filled with love and warmth. "It's everything I've ever dreamed…"

He watched her with hungry silver eyes. "Yes," he agreed. "It is." Her eyes flew to his, and they stared at each other, silent, surrounded by the still, sleeping world and the endlessly falling snow.

Draco was the first to break the silence. "Come on," he said, "there's something I want to show you." He put his arm around her, and she snuggled in close to his warmth. Together, they trudged down the hill towards the edge of the forest, where snow-covered trees formed a thick tangle of branches and limbs.

"Where are we going?" Ginny asked, her eyes wide as she followed him in, taking in every detail of the silent forest. She had heard of this land, protected from the real world by its Malfoy masters, but had never thought to see it herself.

"To the Grove," he answered her, "so that the land may recognize you, and bring you into the circle of its protection."

"Seriously? I thought they were just stories."

He paused on the path and turned back to her, a pale figure so much a part of the winter landscape it twisted her heart. "Seriously, Ginny. The Grove is the heart of the estate, our sacred place – no true Malfoy marriage is complete unless it is brought before the Grove..."

"Hang on." Suspicious now, she tugged at his sleeve, all the stories of the old, conservative pureblood families running through her head. "What do you mean, 'brought before'?"

He smirked. "Once, long ago, it meant consummation –"

"What!" she shrieked, her flesh shrinking from the cold. "You're not –"

"But now it only means that the new Malfoy bride makes an offering on the altar." He stepped back, holding his hands up in mock alarm as she glared and advanced threateningly. Laughing, he turned and fled deeper into the forest, slipping through tree shadows and the undergrowth with ease, drawing her further in towards the centre.

Eventually they came to a ring of immensely old oaks, their trunks grey and hoary with age, and their limbs thick and heavy and dripping with mistletoe. Inside the ring of oaks was a crude, unimaginably old altar, the grey stone blackened with ancient crimson stains. Despite the wintry conditions, the ground was covered in thick grass and flowers, as if it was perpetually spring.

"Is this it?" she whispered.

"Yes," he answered, bowing his head as he stepped into the clearing at the centre of the ring of trees. "This is the Grove." He took her hand and drew her in.

The air was warm and hushed, the silence heavy and reverential. Ginny could feel the energy pulsing beneath her feet, feel the pressing weight of countless centuries of Malfoy power –

"What do I have to do?" she asked, eyeing the bloodstained altar warily.

He shrugged. "Make an offering."

Slowly, she stepped towards the altar, feeling the pressure increase as she drew closer and closer. And then she stood before it, so close that she reached out and touched it, laying a hand against the rough, pitted stone –

Something pricked her finger, and she drew back with a cry. A tiny bead of crimson blood welled up from a scratch, grew larger and larger until it overflowed and dropped, with almost audible force, onto the altar.

The world held its breath. Deep down inside her, she felt something shift, felt a great warmth fill her until she was overflowing…

And then it was gone, and the world snapped back into focus.

* * *

Later, curled up with Draco before the warm, crackling fire in their new bedroom, she closed her eyes and listened, half-dreaming, to the calm, steady beat of her new husband's heart.

"Have you ever made an offering?" she asked, her voice thick and drowsy.

"Once," he answered. "Long ago. My father took me." He fell silent for a moment, no doubt thinking of Lucius, two years dead. "I don't remember much, but it was beautiful – the warmth amid the snow, and the ice…"

"Is that why you…?"

"I wanted to show it to you as I first saw it." He sounded almost embarrassed to admit so much. "I wanted you to see…"

Secretly, she smiled. "It's beautiful," she said, and meant it. She put her hand against his heart, and felt his hand come up to cover hers.

Outside, the snow fell, and the moon shone down on a glorious winter landscape. But secure in the warmth and magic of the Manor, Draco and Ginny celebrated the first night of their marriage…

* * *

A/N - Feedback would be greatly appreciated. Thanks to all my readers.


	3. The Rewards of Virtue

A/N – Another spur of the moment one-shot.

Disclaimer – I don't own Draco or Ginny. Don't sue me; I'll give 'em back.

* * *

The Rewards of Virtue

* * *

They were neither of them particularly romantic by nature. Distrustful of strong emotions in principle, they did not recognize it when they fell into love – how, it was not important – and refused to acknowledge it when they found themselves faced with an unprecedented situation.

A Weasley, in love with a Malfoy.

It would never work.

Young enough – naïve enough – to believe that they could order their lives as they pleased, and arrogant enough to believe that their efforts mattered in the war, they chose to turn their back on wild passion, on the reckless belief in true love and soul mates. Pragmatic and sensible to the last, following common sense like a religion, they went their different ways, believing that they had done the right thing, and that there would be time, later, after the war...

* * *

War showed them how truly wrong they had been to walk away from love. As they fought, they watched families torn apart, men and women and children alike murdered indiscriminately, and they realized what they had so carelessly given up.

But by then it was too late.

Draco Malfoy disappeared in the very last week before the end. There were many theories, many varying reports – some said that he had been discovered spying for the Ministry, while others said that he had bolted with the rest of the big fish, fleeing to the continent before they were caught.

Whatever the truth, he was gone, and Ginny was left alone to mourn.

Such was the reward of virtue, and caution, and common sense.

* * *

"_Was it true?" _she would ask herself years later, old and grey, with her grandchildren by her knee. _"Could it really have been true?"_

It had been such a short period of her life, really: six weeks of burning passion, fumbling, experimenting, and stepping oh-so-cautiously over the great Slytherin-Gryffindor divide. Of course it wouldn't have worked.

But oh, how sweet it had been while it lasted…

* * *

"_Do you remember?"_ he would ask her, if he ever saw her again. _"Do you remember what we once had?"_

Sometimes he thought he could imagine her there before him; see her, as she had once been, her dark eyes earnest, the smallest wrinkle in her brow as she concentrated on her answer. Sometimes he heard her on their very last day of innocence –

"_Draco, there are more important things to worry about than our relationship. Once the war is over…"_

But the war was long over, now, and it was more than sixty years too late for them and the discussion they had so earnestly postponed. If he ever got the chance to go back, to speak to her again as they had on that last day, he would say –

"_There is nothing more important than love, Ginny. Absolutely nothing…" _

Such was the wisdom of long, long years of life and loss. But would they have listened, then, on that day – full as they had been of their own virtue?

* * *


	4. Detachment

A/N – I don't know where this plot bunny came from; I'd say it was probably born out of a desire to see Draco unshaven in a bush hat and khaki. This introductory one-shot contains Photographer!Draco and ForeignCorrespondent!Ginny.

Disclaimer – I don't own. Don't sue.

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**Detachment**

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* * *

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**I**

She saw Draco Malfoy in the bar of the Queen Victoria, the old, run-down hotel that had once been the grandest building in the city. It retained much of its old-world Victorian opulence, but as with the rest of the country, the rot had well and truly set in. Still, it served the best drinks in the city, and so inevitably it became the watering place for all the foreign journalists, photographers and correspondents come to cover the war.

She noticed the distinctive white hair first, long, sun-streaked and shaggy, restrained by a pair of sleek, mirrored muggle sunglasses. It was forty degrees in the shade, and the old-fashioned ceiling fans did little more than stir the hot, humid air; they were all wearing lightweight clothes, and Malfoy was dressed in a short-sleeved, khaki shirt and cargo pants festooned with pockets. In all the years she'd known him, she'd never seen him so casually dressed.

His camera hung about his neck – and she remembered, with a start, that fifteen years ago he'd been one of the foremost photographers of the Resurrection, his brutal, visceral images capturing the horror, terror and violence of the last war against Voldemort. After the end, he'd gone overseas to travel and take photographs, and had returned to England only rarely, for the odd exhibition or book launch.

Ginny hesitated, biting her lip, but then thought of all the people dying or dead because of a senseless civil war – and of how the rest of the wizarding world couldn't care less. She would bring this conflict to their attention. She _would. _Bolstering her courage, she threaded her way through the tables, greeting acquaintances here and there, until she came to where Malfoy sat, alone, smoking and nursing a half-empty glass. He was drinking Scotch, she saw, the ice melting in the glass and condensation forming on the outside.

"Malfoy," she said, sliding her way into the seat beside him. He flicked her a glance, and she swallowed at the flat, considering look. "I don't know if you remember me. I'm –"

"I know who you are, Weasley," he interrupted, breathing out a long, acrid stream of smoke. "I remember you."

"Right," she said, a little taken aback. Yes, he'd worked with the Order, but that had been fifteen years ago. She hadn't thought she'd made that much of an impression. "I was wondering," she began delicately, "whether you might be interested in a mutually beneficial proposal…"

**

* * *

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**II **

Once, he'd snapped a candid picture of a worn, tired Auror, her face white and blood-spattered, standing out in a storm with her head tilted back, laughing and smiling as the rain came down around her…

**

* * *

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**III**

"A mutually beneficial proposal?" he asked.

"Yes," Ginny said. "My photographer was murdered two days ago. Mudengo snatched him off the street."

He made a small, conciliatory gesture. They had both seen too much horror to be sickened or even surprised by such a violent, senseless death. Some of the other journalists, those who had not spent six years fighting for their very survival, had not understood her determination to continue.

"I'm sorry," he said.

**

* * *

**

**IV**

Once, she'd seen him standing in the midst of a burning street, his hair and face smoke blackened, his wand clenched tight, grey eyes bright, burning and feral. Six dead men surrounded him, five Death Eater assassins sent to kill him, and his best friend, Blaise Zabini…

**

* * *

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**V**

Ginny smiled, a little wanly. "Without Ben, I need to find another photographer."

She saw his sidelong look, amused this time. "Trying for subtlety, Weasley?"

"You're the best I've ever seen."

"Flattery as well. How badly do you want this story? 'Flyspeck African country tears itself apart'?"

"No one cares about this war. Hundreds of thousands killed, and no one turns a hair – your pictures are powerful enough to make people pay attention."

His smile sharpened into something grim and bitter. "In my experience, it takes far more than pictures to push people into action – haven't you learned that yet, Weasley? Fudge denied the truth until it was right under his nose; this is on the other side of the world…"

"What are you doing here then? Why are you here, covering this flyspeck African country tearing itself apart?"

**

* * *

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**VI **

Once, he'd been trapped for a week in a safehouse with Colin Creevey, who, nervous and fidgety, had babbled on endlessly about cameras and photography. The house had been attacked; Malfoy had survived, but Creevey had not. On a whim, out of curiosity, he began to take pictures, solely to distract himself from the horror around him – soon, it became a defence mechanism. Through a camera's lens, he could view burned out homes and massacred families with analytical detachment –

After the war, he'd found he couldn't stop, that he was driven to seek out more violence, more war zones, more children with huge, haunted, empty eyes; it was as if other, gentler images no longer had the power to move him.

Except for the one, single image of the laughing woman in the rain…

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	5. Duty Bound

**A/N:** 12 years after the war, Draco returns to England for his daughter's sake. Written for Black Alnair at the dgficexchange.

Disclaimer – I don't own HP. Don't sue.

* * *

**DUTY BOUND**

* * *

The afternoon weather was thick and sluggish, the air heavy and expectant – lightning flashed, and thunder growled in muted response. There would be a storm soon, and something in Draco Malfoy reveled in it. Standing almost naked at the window, feeling the rising wind on his chest and his face, he watched the black clouds mass and gather with frank enjoyment.

There had been a woman, once, who had laughed and twirled madly in summer thunderstorms, her eyes shining as she turned her face up to the rain.

Turning his thoughts firmly away from her, Draco sighed and slid the glass window shut.

* * *

Hours later, when the storm had moved away and the pounding rain had become a misty drizzle, he took out the old, much-creased letter and carefully eased it open, smoothing out the worn folds as if it were the most precious thing in the world. So many times he'd been on the brink of destroying it: burning it, ripping it to pieces, somehow banishing the news contained therein, but every time he'd tried, something inside him pulled back.

_Mr. Malfoy,_ the letter read, in exquisite, old-fashioned penmanship, _as instructed, I have maintained very close, discreet surveillance on Mlle. Weasley. It is my pleasure to inform you that Mlle. Weasley was today delivered of an infant daughter, whom she has named Julia…_

Twelve long years he'd carried that letter with him, the last, honest post-script to a summer of mind-games and deception. And then one day, less than two months ago, he'd received another, very different letter, and his whole world changed in the reading of it.

_Mr. Malfoy,_ read the same exquisite, copperplate script, _I regret to inform you that Mlle. Weasley's young daughter, Julia, has been admitted to St. Mungo's with what appears to be a rare bone disease. There is little information available regarding such an unusual sickness, although some experts believe that the cure may lie in the patient's paternal bone marrow…_

There comes a time in every man's life, his father had once said, when he can no longer run from his responsibilities. Their affair might have been an elaborate, madly extravagant lie, but this daughter of his was not.

Quietly, he made arrangements for his return to England.

* * *

Ginny Weasley sat by her daughter's bedside, holding tightly to her hand, as if she could somehow will her back to health. Looking down at her tired, fine-drawn face, the pale skin – devoid of any of the Weasley freckles – and the white-fair hair, shorn to within an inch of her scalp, Ginny marveled at Julia's resemblance to her father.

Those cool, Malfoy grey eyes were unmistakable.

"Mum," Julia whispered, shifting restlessly on the bed, opening her eyes slowly and painfully. "I'm not really going to die, am I…?"

"Of course not," Ginny scolded, swallowing her own grief and doubts. "The doctors are sure that they can cure you."

"Yes, but we don't know where _he_ is. What if we can't…?" Nervously, she clutched at the old, tattered stuffed pig Fred and George had given her for her fifth birthday. Though it had long since ceased to sing, and the wings flapped only spasmodically, it was still a beloved, familiar toy – even for a schoolgirl who thought herself too old for such things.

"No buts," Ginny interrupted, torn between love and irony. "If there is one thing I'm sure of, it's that your father – wherever he is, and whatever he's doing – is constantly aware of everything that could possibly affect his precious House. He will come back."

Julia stared at her, eyes widening at the unusual bitterness in her tone. "You sound like Uncle Ron. You know, whenever he gets drunk and starts calling my dad a murdering, opportunistic bastard."

Ginny only sighed. "No, darling. Only a Malfoy."

* * *

Ginny's experiences with the ghost of Tom Riddle had led her down the slippery, fascinating road to wizarding psychology. During the war, she'd specialized in analyzing and debriefing – and occasionally interrogating – those Death Eaters who defected to the Ministry in hopes of profit, or advancement, or sometimes simple sanctuary.

Draco Malfoy, the bright, vicious young hope of the new generation of Death Eaters, had jumped ship in early 2006, and the highly suspicious Ministry had assigned Ginny to supervise and debrief him. Twenty-six years old, a natural-born killer, he'd been one of the most fascinating subjects Ginny had ever studied – until she began to see him as a man, and not as a Death Eater.

That was when the trouble began, when she lost her objectivity and could no longer distinguish between truth and deception, between what he said, and what he meant. And when he killed his guards and disappeared into the night, never to be heard from again, it spelled the end of both her career and of any hope that she might ever trust him again.

A soft, silent movement stirred the air behind her, alerting her to a new arrival in the doorway.

She kept her eyes fixed on Julia's sleeping form, and did not turn around.

"So," she said. "It's you."

"Yes," he answered simply. His voice was smooth, cultured, and utterly impassive; it was his most dangerous tone, his killing voice, and it sent a shocking thrill down her spine. "But then, you always knew, didn't you."

Her heart began to pound. She had always had a primal awareness of him, of his presence; she could feel him behind her, feel him draw closer and closer, until he stood right behind her with his hand hovering over the nape of her neck.

"Or was that a lie too?" he murmured.

She swallowed. Slowly, so very slowly, his white, elegant hand settled on her neck, cupping, caressing, possessing it. A killer's hand. A murderer's.

"No," she whispered, her voice hoarse and shaking with desire. And then again, in a much stronger tone, _"No."_

Immediately, he took his hand away and the spell was broken. She heard his footsteps behind her, the soft swishing of the traditional black robes he so favoured; gripping her hands together with desperate force, she turned around to face him.

* * *

She looked haunted, he thought. Her eyes were dark and vulnerable, her fire and bristle dampened by worry and fear.

"You know about Julia's illness," she murmured.

"I heard." For the first time, he looked down at his daughter, asleep in her hospital bed, and saw the unmistakable stamp of Malfoy blood. And, because he was looking for it, he saw the resemblance to Ginny, in the wide, generous mouth and stubborn chin.

_His daughter._

"She's beautiful," he said, surprised.

Ginny only shook her head. "She was, once. Before."

His eyes flew up to hers, locked; for a moment, he felt the old electricity, the clash of wills and minds that had so excited him during his debriefing. But then she looked away, and the moment was lost.

"But now that you've come back," she continued, her voice formal and impersonal, "the mediwitches say she has a 98 chance of recovery. I'd like to thank you –"

"Don't thank me," he cut her off. "I don't want your gratitude."

Her nostrils flared, an old, familiar sign of temper. Fascinated, he watched her conquer it.

"Nevertheless –"

"No. I don't run from my responsibilities. Not anymore."

She drew in her breath. "Your _responsibilities?_"

"After the operation, I'll take her down to the Manor. She can recover in peace, there, on Malfoy land."

That did it. Her copper-bright hair bristled and sparked, and she stepped forwards until she faced him, toe-to-toe, almost nose-to-nose. She was tall, Ginny Weasley, and strong; for a moment he thought she might actually attack him.

"You listen to me, _Malfoy_," she hissed. "If it wasn't for this disease, I would never have let you come within a hundred miles of my daughter. You are _not_ going to take her _anywhere_ without me, do you understand?" She stopped, thought. "How did you get back into England? I thought there was a warrant still outstanding for your arrest."

He only smiled. "The war is over, Weasley. And old sins and indiscretions can be made to go away – for a price."

One hundred thousand galleons, it had cost him to buy that pardon. An outrageous sum, but he had paid it willingly – the war was over, and it had been time to return home.

A small, painful whimper drew both their gazes and rendered their argument irrelevant. Julia stirred restlessly in her drugged sleep, disturbed by the tension and conflict, one thin, fragile hand half-lifting off the bed. Ginny hurried to her side, catching the restless hand and lifting it to her cheek. Watching her, his eyes falling on the old, battered toy, Draco felt a sudden surge of protectiveness, for the first time in his life glimpsing what it might mean to care for someone else's welfare, over and above his own.

* * *

Two weeks later Julia Weasley, newly cured and slowly recovering, stepped carefully into the great stone fortress that was Malfoy Manor. Leaning heavily on her father's arm – solid and strong, under the rich, expensive robes – she looked about her in absolute awe.

This was the great stronghold of the oldest, most powerful pureblooded House in Britain. For two and a half thousand years it had stood, the symbol of absolute and often iron-fisted Malfoy power, a monument to a past and a history that the Ministry, in their new political correctness, was currently trying to rewrite.

"Of course," her father continued, in his dry, urbane voice, "it's still bloody cold in winter, though."

Julia laughed. Her mother did not, simply watched her father with dark, almost wary eyes, as if she was still not sure of him, even now. He had donated his very blood and bone to cure Julia's disease, had returned to England as soon as he heard that she was ill – what more did her mother want?

Ignoring the awkward tension, her father took them on a condensed tour of the main rooms and corridors, commenting as they passed on the various paintings, tapestries and trophies lining the walls. Julia found it all fascinating, but most especially she loved the living, moving paintings of her ancestors, all fair-haired and with unmistakable grey Malfoy eyes. For the first time, she felt as though she belonged, instead of being the odd one out, a quiet, pale ghost beside her vivid, flamboyant cousins.

Right then and there, Julia – quiet, deep-thinking Julia, who had horrified her mother and the entire Weasley family by being sorted into Slytherin – made up her mind. She wasn't going back to the Burrow.

She was going to stay here forever.

* * *

That night, she found her father on the battlements, his face unguarded as he looked out across the expanse of his land. Panting slightly – for she was not as recovered as she would like to be – she made her slow way towards him, testing this new relationship, so recently discovered.

"You shouldn't be out here," he said, when she finally got to his side. "The air is too cold."

His voice was smooth and confident, his accent cut glass – with his sleek sophistication, he was so very different from her uncles and from every other father figure, she'd ever known. When he slipped off his thick black cloak and swung it awkwardly around her shoulders, she looked up at him in absolute awe.

"I wanted to thank you," she said, turning her nose into his cloak, enjoying the warmth and feel of the rich cashmere. "You saved my life."

But he only shook his head. "You are my daughter. There is no need."

She frowned. "You know, you're very different from what I thought you would be. I mean, Uncle Ron said you were a Death Eater assassin…"

She lifted her eyes to his, and they stared at each other, two pairs of grey Malfoy eyes.

"Yes," he said frankly, "I was. I liked my life, and had no desire to become a martyr to principle. When there was no longer any profit in it, I defected."

"But then why did you leave? Mum said you just killed your guards and disappeared into the night."

He did not – quite – smile. It was not a pleasant expression. "Ah. Now that is quite another matter. The _Ministry_ saw no further profit in my continued existence."

"B-but…" she frowned. " Are you saying the _Ministry_ tried to kill you? But that's… Mum says those men were your guards. She said they were there to guard you from _Death Eater_ assassins."

* * *

Rapid, angry footsteps woke Ginny up out of a sound sleep. Shocked and disoriented, she sat up, drawing the sheets about her, waiting for Draco's arrival. It did not take long: in seconds, the locking charm she had so carefully placed on the door had been blasted into smithereens, and he stormed into the bedroom, looming over her, his eyes hot and angry.

"What did you tell her?" he snarled, running a shaking hand through his hair.

She stared at him, her eyes absorbed by the sight of his bare forearm, uncovered when the sleeve of his robe slipped backwards up to his elbow. The black, malignant Mark was distinctive against his white skin.

"I haven't told her anything," she snapped in return. "How could I? I don't _know_ why you left."

He whirled around, turning on her. "Bullshit, Weasley! You knew me better than anyone else ever has. You played me like a master –"

"_I_ played _you_?" She laughed, wildly, cruelly, almost hysterically. "If anything, it was the other way around!"

"No." He shook his head. "No, Weasley. You pried open my _soul_. You strung me along, playing the innocent, allowing me tastes and tidbits until I would have done _anything_ for you – and then you betrayed me."

"I didn't betray you!" she shrieked, her fists clenched. "I loved you, you fool!"

He went white. "Love?" he repeated. "You loved me? Was that why you met with Lupin in secret and gave him weekly reports on my progress? Was that why you rushed off the night I left, leaving me alone to be attacked by Ministry assassins? You say you loved me, but it could only have been your recommendation –"

"You conceited, paranoid…arsehole! I was appointed to debrief you, no more, no less! Falling into bed with you was _not_ part of the job description. I took a risk on you, Malfoy – I was emotionally involved, but I stood up for you anyway. You should have trusted me!"

"But I did trust you," he said, his voice very quiet. "I loved you, Ginny, as I have never loved anyone else before or since. Which is why it hurt so much when you betrayed me…"

She only sighed. "Why did you come back, then, if you thought I'd betrayed you?" Shivering in the cool night air, she drew the blankets closer around her, huddling into their warmth.

He said nothing, merely watched her. Slowly, as if coming to some incredibly difficult internal decision, he sat down on the edge of her bed, reaching out to take her hand in his.

"I could not stay away," he admitted finally.

They stayed like that for a long, long time, neither quite trusting the other yet, their only link a tenuous connection – a passionate past, a wary, vulnerable present, and an uncertain future. But still, their hands clasped and held tightly, as if neither truly wished to let go.

* * *

**Epilogue**

"My father is an Unspeakable," said Julia Malfoy, tossing her long white-fair hair over her shoulder. "He goes on important missions for the Ministry all the time. That's why he was always away when I was young; to protect me and my mother while he was pretending to be a Death Eater."

Helena Nott grinned maliciously, showing off her perfect white teeth. "Oh, really? My mother says that he ran off at the height of the war, leaving your mother pregnant and alone."

Julia's eyes narrowed dangerously. All around her, her fellow Slytherins watched avidly, waiting to see how she would handle this blatant provocation – her temper was notorious, and she had been involved in four fights already this term, fighting to establish a position of strength in the Serpent House.

"Take that back," Julia said quietly, fingering her wand.

Helena smirked. "Make me."

They stared at each other a while longer, their eyes narrowing, and then they drew.

Julia was faster.

* * *

"Well, really, Julia," her mother said, "you can't just go 'round turning other girls into hideous, ugly hags."

Julia sniffed. "She deserved it."

Ginny Malfoy did not look impressed. Julia looked to her father, then, standing behind her mother's chair, his hand on her shoulder, all his protective instincts focused on his wife and the baby she carried – conceived in love, trust, and joy, after twelve long years of emptiness.

Draco Malfoy looked at Julia and winked. "Be more subtle, next time," he said.

Her mother sighed and cast her eyes up at him, smiling; an exasperated, laughing smile that made Julia sigh with envy. Then, with her father's help, she heaved herself out of the chair and opened her arms wide. Julia hugged her, gently, feeling the baby between them, and felt her father's strong, sure arms enfold them all.

* * *


	6. To the Letter

A/N – Partly inspired by "Lips of an Angel" by Hinder.

Disclaimer – I don't own HP. I don't own anything. Don't sue.

* * *

**To the Letter**

* * *

He saw her out of the corner of his eye, a flash of red, a brief impression of familiarity. For a moment, he stared after her, caught unawares by vivid memories of another time, and another place – until his new bride's voice brought him back to the present.

"Draco," she said uncertainly, resting her hand on his sleeve, and then snatching it away just as quickly. "What do you think of this one?"

Dutifully he turned his attention to the glittering collar of diamonds and rubies the saleswoman was holding up to Millicent's neck. Even at a quick glance, he knew it would overpower her, that she was far too plain and insecure to carry off such extravagance with style. But the expression on her face was too naked, too eager to please, and he knew that he would not say anything at all, or else he would speak too truly for both their comfort.

She had known, coming into the marriage, that he did not love her, or even desire her, and that all he wanted of her was her money and her discretion. She had accepted his proposal anyway.

Murmuring something noncommittal, he escaped outside, fumbling with a packet of Muggle cigarettes – a last remnant of the War, when his life expectancy had been measured in days, not decades. Another flash of red caught his eye, and he turned to see Ginny Wood frowning at him, her eyes warm and exasperated. "Those things will kill you one day, Malfoy," she said, her voice a complex mix of old humour and new reserve.

He laughed. "Oh?" Wryly, he slipped a cigarette between his lips and lit it with a muttered word.

Her mouth tightened, just as he knew it would. He had known everything about her, once.

A high-pitched, joyous squeal interrupted the moment. A small, compact bundle, bright-eyed and red-haired, launched herself at Ginny and squeezed her tightly. Ginny smiled and ruffled the young girl's hair, bending down to hug her back.

"Yours?" Draco asked.

"Yes," she said frankly, pushing her long hair back in an achingly familiar gesture. "My eldest: Emily."

He looked down at the girl's small, pale face, the bright, innocent eyes, and the unmistakable resemblance to Oliver Wood. "Congratulations," he forced out.

Ginny looked at him sharply. After a moment, she said, "I understand that congratulations are in order for you, too. Millicent Bulstrode, wasn't it?"

He drew sharply on the cigarette, breathing in the bitter, acrid smoke. "You can endure anything if you truly have to, Ginny. Voldemort taught me that."

The harsh, bitter lessons of his youth had been hard learned, and almost too late. His family, his fortune, and even his home had been destroyed, but he was still here, still thriving, when other, better men had failed. And if he ever wished for something different, he had only to remind himself of the blackened, smoking walls of Malfoy Manor, and of the cold, wretched years of hunger and poverty.

Only Gryffindors were proud in their suffering.

"Draco?" Millicent's deep, hoarse voice called him back to reality. "Are you ready?"

He turned to face her, suppressing a wince at the blinding brilliance of her necklace. Deliberately, he smiled, gave her his arm. "Millicent," he said pleasantly, with none of his former bitterness, "do you remember Ginny Weasley? Oh, it's Wood now, isn't it?"

Ginny's eyes narrowed, but still, she held her hand out to Millicent, her expression bland and noncommittal. Millicent darted a glance at him and then shook hands, puzzled and uncertain; there were times when Draco wondered if the awkward insecurity was all there was to her, whether there was anything more. Sometimes he thought…

But he didn't care enough to find out.

* * *

A/N – Just out of curiosity, who has your sympathies here?


	7. Snapshot

September was the 50th anniversary of Australian television. There were any number of shows detailing the iconic images/shows/news stories of the period. And so the original bunny.

Please forgive the shameless borrowing. I've filched a few Australian iconic moments and Potter-ised them.

**

* * *

**

**Snapshot**

* * *

Ginny wasn't sure that it had been a good idea to come. The Ministry's triumphant, blatantly patriotic exhibition was intended to celebrate the tenth anniversary of the end of the war, but she was afraid it would stir up old memories that were best forgotten. However, she allowed herself to be talked into attending, and now she stood in the foyer of the new Ministry building, surrounded by memories and ghosts.

The most iconic images and symbols of the Resurrection hung in all their stark glory on the newly painted walls: an array of photographs, paintings and memorabilia that told the terrifying, inspiring and ultimately human story of a nation's desperate struggle against its own demons.

Here were horrifying records of the worst of the violence – the sprawled, lifeless victims of the Port Arthur Lane massacre, the eldritch green Mark hanging over them like an evil omen. Hogwarts, the day after the battle, ruined and broken, the flames still burning and flickering. Grim, dour Aurors and with smoke-blackened faces, and hollow-eyed children with empty, helpless gazes that had seen far too much.

Here was a collection of the timeless moments, the endlessly reproduced images that had inspired and emboldened them all – Stuart Diver, the only survivor of a vicious raid, who had lain, helpless, under the ruins of his hotel room for forty-eight hours. The battle of Long Tanner, where a small group of embattled Aurors held off more than two hundred attackers until reinforcements came. Among them was the famous image of a wounded Auror, limping heavily, his head swathed in bandages, supported by the mysterious hill tribesmen on the Caw Cogh Da trail.

Further on, she found happier, more intimate memories – snatched moments of peace, joy and laughter amidst the terror and despair of war. An impromptu quidditch match in the rain, old school friends laughing as they enjoyed a rare conflict free day. A mother, reunited with her lost children, after thinking them dead. A man dancing in the street on the day peace was finally won, laughing and sweeping off his hat.

And here, a picture that had launched a reluctant hero – Draco Malfoy, staggering out of the burning Ministry building, an unconscious woman in his arms. As he ran the building behind him rumbled ominously, and he threw himself to the ground, curling himself around her body, sheltering her as best he could –

"It took them two days to pick all the shrapnel out of my back." A cool, sardonic voice spoke at her elbow.

She did not turn around. She did not need to. "I never thanked you, did I?"

"I don't want your gratitude," Draco said. "I didn't do it for thanks."

"Then why did you?"

He moved up beside her to stare at the endlessly repeating photograph, his smooth, expensive composure very different now to what he had been, ten years ago. It was impossible to know what he was thinking. "At the time, I thought it a good idea."

* * *

(And a little extra, for incurable shippers)

Ginny remembered nothing of that spectacular rescue. Knocked unconscious by a flying curse, she'd woken six hours later in St. Mungo's to the knowledge that she owed Draco Malfoy her life: he'd carried her down two burning floors and three flights of stairs, dodging falling beams, exploding spell caches and attacking Death Eaters, sheltering her with his own body whenever he could –

All on a whim?

No. She didn't think so.


	8. Problematic

A/N - A clarification of one of my earlier drabbles. Hopefully this will be much easier to understand than the original.

Disclaimer - I don't own HP, any of the canon settings, situations or characters. Don't sue.

* * *

**Problematic**

* * *

In the flickering glow of the candlelight, her skin was a warm, ivory bronze and her hair was a dark river of mysteries, sleek and rich and scented with exotic spices. She was beautiful, and she drew him inexorably in; imperious, she held out her hand, and he was helpless not to answer.

"Malfoy," she whispered in his ear, her voice low and throaty, "tell me that you want me…"

He dragged his mouth away from her warm, scented throat, where her pulse beat frantically under her skin. "I want you," he whispered darkly, stringing a series of small kisses and bites across her shoulder.

"Tell me that you need me," she whispered again, a siren song in the dark. She reached up and threaded her fingers through his hair, tugging, compelling him to answer.

"I need you," he groaned, arching up into her touch. He was helpless, here, as he had never been before; held captive by her voice and her mystery and her sex. "Oh God, I need you, Weasley…"

She smiled as she cradled him hard against her, and it was a hard, cruel smile.

He bit her, licking, soothing, and she cried out –

"No!" she whispered, just moments before it was too late. "No, stop…"

He drew in a sharp breath, and pulled back.

* * *

In the cold, stark moonlight, she was huddled into a thick, all-enveloping robe, her face white and pinched, her eyes dark and anything but inviting.

He sat on his bed, watching her, wondering – as he had since he'd first noticed her – what she could possibly be thinking.

"I didn't think," he began harshly, "that you were a cocktease, Weasley."

She flinched. "I'm not… I've never…"

"You're not? You've never? What?!" His voice was cruel in the fading remnants of their intimacy. "What kind of game do you think you're playing?"

She shook her head, refusing to speak, only drawing further in on herself. Draco felt a moment's pity, but he, too, had been exposed tonight.

"If this is some kind of plot –"

"No! It's not like that." She lowered her head so that her hair fell across her face, veiling her expression. "It's just… I didn't want…"

He was in no mood to be gentle. "You didn't want what?"

"I didn't want it to matter!" She glared at him sullenly through the curtain of her hair. "I thought if I chose the most unsuitable boy to…to be with, if I threw myself away, then it wouldn't truly matter –"

"And so you immediately thought of me."

She shrugged. "Don't tell me you're hurt, Malfoy." Cruel, relentless, she continued. "Choosing you was the perfect way to punish them all. Besides, it's only sex with you, nothing more."

He was silent for a long, long moment, remembering the terrifying, heady feel of his fascinated infatuation –

"Then why did you stop me?" he asked finally.

She flushed, and looked away. "You hurt me," she mumbled.

* * *

For a moment, he'd almost looked hurt.

She would remember that, later, and wonder just how much _he _had revealed of himself, in that mad flush of passion that had so terrified her.

But she'd needed to distract him, to forestall any more searching questions lest he come far, far too close to an uncomfortable truth. And, as she knew, Draco Malfoy was so much easier to manipulate when he was angry and off-balance...

* * *

After she left, wrapped and shielded in her robe, he wondered why he hadn't pushed her further, following up on her inconsistencies and refusals instead of calmly accepting her lies. But the sight of her vulnerability had aroused his protective instincts, rather than his predatory ones, and he couldn't force himself to destroy that fragile composure.

Sitting on his bed, the ghost of her intoxicating scent still lingering in the empty, echoing silence, he cursed himself for a fool.

* * *


	9. Cowardice

A/N – Here is my first (yes, my very first) attempt at HBP!Draco.

Disclaimer – I don't own HP. No profit was made in the writing of this piece.

* * *

**Cowardice**

* * *

"If I don't do it," Draco said, too casually, "he'll kill my parents. I can't refuse, Weasley."

Ginny looked at him, sprawling with magnificent arrogance, the fine lines about his eyes the only indications of his unease.

"If you go through with this, you'll forfeit everything. You'll forfeit _us, _Malfoy."

There was a taut, strained silence. "An ultimatum?"

She frowned unhappily. "Draco, please. I can't. Not if you become one of…them."

"That's not fair, Gin. I can't just abandon –"

"Fair!" She snarled, the anger flowing hot and strong, a relief from the awkward grief and sorrow. "You're complaining of fairness? _Nothing _in this life is fair, Draco, and I thought you'd have learned that by now."

She drew breath to continue, but he reached out and caught her arm, cutting her off in mid-flow.

"Going through with this won't make me a Death Eater."

"Yes it will," she whispered, feeling herself start to cry. "Yes it will, Draco. You won't have the Mark, but you'll still be a Death Eater…"

He reached out, touched her cheek. "Ginny, I can handle this…"

"No!" she snapped, batting his hand away. "No, you can't! Draco, you can't 'handle' this situation any more! You can't refuse to make the choice – stop being a coward and take a stand, one way or the other!"

They stared at each other, on the edge of a very painful chasm. No, it had gone too far for that.

"And if you don't like my choice?" he asked quietly. "If I choose my family?"

Unable to bear his gaze, her eyes slid away. He laughed softly, mirthless and bitter. "I thought so."

She did not see him get up and walk away, and nor did she watch him as he went.

If he looked back, she never knew.

* * *

FIN


	10. Trust

A/N- The first of my timestamp ficlets. Written for mynuet, who asked for something set five years after Footprints.

Disclaimer – Harry Potter and all its characters, settings and situations are the property of JK Rowling and assorted publishers and movie moguls. Not myself, alas.

* * *

**Trust**

* * *

The great, carved wooden doors of Malfoy Manor swung open at her knock, and a small, dignified house-elf peered out at her. Ginny recognised her; it was Draco's housekeeper, Libby.

"Mistress Weasley!" Libby exclaimed, her face lighting up with delight and relief. "You came."

"Of course I did," Ginny answered, smiling. She couldn't help but like the plucky house-elf, who ruled the household with cringing subservience that disguised an iron hand. "You sent for me, didn't you?"

A house-elf in Malfoy black and silver had shown up at her doorstep early this morning. He'd been most insistent, in his most servile manner, that she should drop everything she'd planned to do and come with him to the Manor.

"Master has been very troubled lately," was all Libby would say. "We house elves have been worried."

Not for the first time, Ginny wondered at the strange relationship Draco had with his house elves. They were unquestionably servants, and they bowed and scraped and cowered obsequiously, and yet they seemed to regard him with almost proprietary care. They had protected him from his stepfather, once, and he had never forgotten it.

"You think that I can help him?"

Libby fixed her with a knowing, albeit slightly bulging eye. Her wrinkled, folded face was inscrutable, her ears tilted slyly. "Master listens to you," she said. "Trusts you."

In the five years since his father's death, Draco had walked a very fine line between the Ministry, the Death Eaters and the High Clan. His loyalties – shifting and uncertain – had been constantly questioned, his motives unclear and enigmatic. There seemed to be no real rhyme or reason to his choices, except that he had little love for anything beyond his own personal interests.

If she did not know him so well, if she did not understand – just a little – of how he thought and why he acted, she would be appalled by his actions. But she remembered that terrible night in the dungeons of Hogwarts, when, pushed to the corner, he had stood up to Theodore Nott and all his cronies, and had said _enough. _She remembered the weeks of impromptu lessons in what it meant to be Slytherin, and High Clan, and lost in a world with no absolutes.

And she remembered waking from pain and darkness, opening her eyes to see him peering down at her, his eyes openly worried…

_

* * *

_

_...the south of France, _the letter read. _While there can be no certainty, I believe that this Mr. Montfort is indeed…_

"Working again, Malfoy?"

Draco Malfoy jerked his attention away from the parchment scroll, his eyes drawn to the doorway to his study.

_She _stood there, the light from the corridor outside illuminating her blazing hair –

"Weasley," he said faintly. "What are you doing here?"

"Your house elves were worried about you," she answered, crossing the room towards him, confident of her welcome. "They think you are in danger of becoming a mad recluse."

He submitted to her warm, affectionate hug. When she straightened again and perched herself on the arm of his heavy wooden chair, he said, "And so they sent you to drag me away?"

"Do you think I could?"

He looked into her dark eyes, so Gryffindor earnest, still with that quicksilver spark of curiosity and spirit that had led her to blackmail him into helping her, all those years ago. But she was no longer fourteen years old, scrawny and determined to prove herself to Potter and his friends. And he was no longer fifteen, angry at everyone and everything, desperate for strength and power.

"Yes," he murmured, winding one of her copper-red curls around his finger. She flushed, her eyes darkening; they stared at each other, caught on the brink of a step he'd never take, not in the five long years of their very close acquaintance. They were, in their own strange way, the closest of confidantes; he was reluctant to introduce sex into the equation.

"My mother tells me you've got a job in the Minister's office," he said, releasing her hair, deliberately shifting the focus of the conversation.

She blinked, drawn back, and then frowned. "When are you finally going to trust me, Malfoy? It's been _five years._ You must know I've no ulterior motives –"

"I _do _trust you, Weasley, more than anyone else in the world. It's just…"

"Just what?" she snapped.

He looked into her great dark eyes, knowing that most of his secrets lay behind them, that she saw more of him than anyone else ever had. And still he couldn't bring himself to commit himself fully, to believe that she would never, ever change, never turn on him, because _no one _had no other interests. He knew her as well as anyone could, and yet he feared, sometimes, that one day he would look into her eyes and see hidden secrets starting back at him.

He refused to answer, standing up and clearing away the mess of scrolls and reports that littered his heavy wooden desk, staring out the glass window at the blue sky beyond. When he turned back to her, the frustration and confusion were gone, replaced by laughing, teasing determination.

"You look stressed, Malfoy. How long since you've allowed yourself time off to relax?"

"Relax?" He raised a quizzical brow, playing along. "I don't know what you mean."

"I mean," she said, standing beside him and putting her hand on his sleeve, "when was the last time you put down your work and went outside, in the bright sunshine, to have a picnic?"

"It _is_ a beautiful day," he answered thoughtfully. "I suppose I could put off this incredibly boring paperwork for an hour or two."

"The whole afternoon. Libby was most insistent."

Despite himself, he laughed.

* * *

It was a beautiful day, just as he'd said. They sprawled under an old, spreading tree, a small, clear stream chuckling just a few metres away, and lunched on delicacies provided by Libby and her matchmaking cohorts. Draco, propped up on his elbow, his hair falling into his eyes, was in an expansive mood, talking freely and open to her questions.

The sun was warm, and they fell into a relaxed, comfortable silence after they'd finished their meal. Ginny, drowsy and a little flushed with wine, yawned delicately and closed her eyes, stretching out next to him, far closer than he normally allowed anyone.

If he watched over her as she slept, his eyes tender and protective, if he brushed his hand over her vibrant, copper hair and leaned down to press a kiss against her forehead, then she never knew it.

* * *


	11. One Perfect Day

A/N – The second of my timestamp ficlets, written for rainpuddle13 on LJ. Warning: excessive WAFF and very little plot.

Disclaimer – I don't own HP, any of the canon characters, situations or settings. Don't sue.

* * *

One Perfect Day

* * *

It was the tail end of a long, Indian summer.

The mid-afternoon sun shone down upon an idyllic scene: a loving family, mother, father, and two children, picnicking on a hillside under the shade of a great, spreading tree. It was a snapshot of a lifestyle – and an era – long passed, a dream that bore very little resemblance to the reality of life in the world outside the Veil.

Because this was the enchanted, protected world that Brandon Andenais, the first Malfoy, had conquered so very long ago, and which his descendants had held against all comers – even the inevitable march of time and progress. Even to the most jaded Slytherins, there were some things worth fighting – and dying – for.

Julian Malfoy, however, at nearly fifteen, was not convinced of the absolute importance of maintaining Malfoy supremacy. Stretched out on the lush green grass, he lay on his back and looked up at the clear sky, his mind dreaming of far, far away places where no one had ever heard of the Malfoy name, and no one cared that he could trace his bloodline back two and a half thousand years.

He couldn't wait until his return to Hogwarts in September.

"Julian?" his father asked, coming up to sit beside him, speaking in that cool, aristocratic voice that meant there was a serious father-son talk coming up in the not-too distant future. "What are you thinking?"

Julian looked up at the great Draco Malfoy, who had turned on all his pureblooded friends and associates in order to ensure the survival and continued independence of the Malfoy, and who had been at Harry Potter's side in the last battle against Voldemort. His parents never spoke much about the old days, but Julian had heard enough to know that his father had not had an easy time of it. He was older, now, just past forty; there were fine lines at the corners of his eyes, and streaks of silver in his white-fair hair. But to Julian he was the embodiment of cool sophistication and effortless influence, so completely set in his ways and in his world that it was hard to believe he'd ever been young, and insecure, and unsure.

Julian turned his eyes to the view from the hillcrest – the Malfoy estate, spread out at his feet, every inch of it familiar and well loved.

"Hogwarts," he answered. "The past. The future."

His father said nothing, and, lost in his thoughts, Julian continued. "At Hogwarts, children of complete Muggle blood are held equal to even the oldest pureblood families. Grandma Weasley said that every student came to Hogwarts with a clean slate, a chance to make what they will of their future."

His father muttered something under his breath about interfering old busybodies. Julian ignored him.

"But if everyone has the chance to shape their own lives, then why do I have to be stuck with –" he threw his hands out wide, encompassing the great expanse of Malfoy lands below them, "– all this?"

His father sighed. "You know why," he said wearily, and indeed, Julian did know why – he'd heard it all before: duty, responsibility, pureblood wealth and privilege and the vital legacy of the past that must be preserved for future generations.

"But I don't _want _it," Julian said fiercely.

There was a long, taut silence.

"No one does," Draco answered finally. "But we accept it anyway."

**

* * *

**

**Optional Extra. Warning: Excessive Fluff**

* * *

As she watched her son storm away in a huff, his sullen, stubborn face a replica of his father's at the same age, Ginny turned her attention back to her daughter.

Six-year-old Lucrezia, delicate, ethereal, and as single-mindedly ruthless as her namesake grandfather, smiled angelically up at her and fluttered her ridiculously long eyelashes. Even at this age, she had the makings of an unrepentant seductress: her father, brother, grandfather and six uncles were firmly wrapped around her imperious finger, and even the house elves scrambled to fulfil even her slightest wish.

"Lucy," Ginny warned, "what did Mummy tell you about self-respect and women's liberation?"

The exquisite rosebud mouth screwed into a pout. "But Grandma 'Cissa says…"

Ginny bit back a curse. "Yes, I know what Grandma Cissa says. But you can't go about enchanting poor foolish males into obedience forever, Lucy. For one thing, it's just not fair to them."

Quiet laughter sounded behind her, and her husband's arms came around her in a warm, loving hug. "Darling," Draco said, "don't you think you're being a bit harsh? Lucrezia's only six years old."

"_Lucy_," Ginny said firmly, "is well on her way to becoming a tyrant. If we don't nip it in the bud, she'll be unbearable once she hits adolescence." Sparing her unrepentant daughter one last, warning look, she changed the subject. "What's wrong with Julian?"

Draco placed a kiss right at the junction of her neck and collarbone. "He's fourteen years old," he answered. "Isn't that enough?"

"Not when you've just been talking to him. Did you start in again on duty and responsibility? Draco, he's only fourteen."

"That's more than old enough –"

But before it could degenerate into a quarrel, Lucy crossed to them, her arms wide, and grabbed their legs in a great bear hug. "'m a Malfoy, too!" she exclaimed, her eyes shining and determined. "An' when I grow up, I'm gonna be _Queen _Lucy!"

Queen Lucy's fond parents looked down at her in very real dismay. Once set on a course, the little girl was immovable –

"Well," Draco said, his voice not quite steady, "it looks as though Julian might have some competition when he gets older."

"But Mummy," Lucy said, her eyes suddenly meltingly sweet and innocent, "you _said_ boys were just as good as girls…"

* * *


	12. Midnight Fantasies

A/N – Woot! I was attacked by a lust!bunny. Epilogue compliant, except for balding!Draco, which I utterly refute.

Disclaimer – JKR owns all things Harry Potter. Don't sue.

* * *

Midnight Fantasies

* * *

In her dreams, she remembers him, remembers what it was like to be fifteen years old, reckless, and invulnerable in a way she would never be again. She remembers what it was to touch him, and be touched in return, that terrible, glorious, damn-the-whole-world thrill that was equal parts lust and dangerous fascination –

And she wakes, panting, her nightgown twisted around her heated, sweating body, aching with the phantom, bruising touch of white, quidditch-calloused hands, the hard, unpractised play of mouth on mouth.

Harry lies beside her, sleeping heavily, his mind untroubled by ghosts of long-past lovers and regrets. But the memory of Draco Malfoy – sixteen years old, sullen, awkward, and resentful – hovers round her like a ghost, so strong she can _feel_ him.

* * *

Slowly, silently, she trails her fingers down her throat, imagining the touch of his lips following, the brush of his over-long, white fair hair, trailing further down, now, circling her breasts, skimming her stomach (her muscles contracting, her breath catching) and down to the ache between her thighs, his eyes smoky grey, dark and a little cruel.

She builds the image slowly, his hands, his mouth, his tongue, and closes her eyes so that she can hold it in her mind, grip it tightly, this guilty pleasure, hold it close to her heart against all the disappointments of reality. Breathing hoarsely, she writhes under him, lost in a stolen winter night, the full moon illuminating their hidden tryst, pouring down on their blind, gasping striving –

And then it shatters, dissolves into white nothingness, and she is left with nothing but empty memories and the reality of her sleeping husband, worthy, good-hearted, and utterly oblivious.

* * *

In the cold light of morning, all ghosts and fantasies are banished. She smiles and talks easily, bustling about the kitchen, scolding her children and kissing Harry on the forehead before he goes off to work.

She reveals nothing of her dream, or of the midnight fantasies that fuelled it.

She never does.

* * *


	13. Trust and Betrayal

**A/N - **My entry for the 2008 DG Fic Exchange. Written for waterjade.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own HP, any of the canon characters or concepts. Don't sue.

* * *

**Trust and Betrayal**

**

* * *

**

**Prologue**

The Mediterranean was wine-dark, blood-warm in the moonlight. The salt-laden breeze tugged at her long hair, tangling and knotting it, but Pansy had no care for such things – she stood silent, waiting, as Draco Malfoy walked along the sand towards them, the waves shushing gently over his bare white feet –

For a moment, she remembered a younger, more innocent boy laughing; a golden summer afternoon. But that had been a long, long time ago.

"So," Blaise said quietly, tugging her back against him, wrapping his arms around her, "he has found us."

Pansy leaned into his solid strength, his warm, tangible presence. "I always knew he would. But I just didn't believe it would be so soon."

Blaise did not reply to that, but his arms tightened around her, an unspoken promise of protection. She knew that he would kill to protect her, but she had never thought it would come to this.

Finally, the ghostly-pale figure reached them, and he stood before them, barefoot, his eyes shadowed and unreadable.

"Why did you do it?" Draco asked finally.

There was a small measure of silence. There did not seem much to say – Draco, more tolerant than his father, would forgive many things, but not such a blatant betrayal by the two people in the world he trusted the most.

"Love," Blaise said simply. "We tried to fight it, but…" he shrugged. "Some things are beyond our control."

"And the money?"

Pansy winced. "The Ministry took everything –"

Blaise squeezed her, once, in warning. She fell silent.

"We knew you would weather the investigation," Blaise dared.

They were Slytherin. They would do anything – anything – to further their interests, to protect their loved ones. They had gambled everything on Draco's reaction, hoping that he would not follow in Lucius' footsteps and kill them both just to prove a point.

For a long, long while, Draco stood very still, and Pansy shivered in Blaise's arms, the enormity of what they had done threatening to overwhelm her.

"No doubt I should take it as a compliment," Draco murmured, half to himself. He held up his hand, a whispered word casting a small pool of light, illuminating his face and his eyes. All the weight of their long friendship, their unspoken trust, and all the words they would not, could not say lay between them, silent and accusing. Still, Pansy lifted her chin, drew herself up, and felt Blaise straighten behind her. She refused to regret her actions, or apologise for them – given the choice, she would do it over again.

And Draco recognised it, a strange, sardonic smile darkening his eyes.

"Don't expect me to congratulate you," was all he said.

As she watched him walk away, Pansy felt a low, strange feeling of guilt stir.

And then, drawing in a deep breath, she deliberately dispelled it.

**

* * *

**

**Two weeks later**

For more than three hundred years, the same old, age-darkened portrait had graced the mantelpiece in the member's lounge of the Enchanter's club. In it, Godric Gryffindor and Salazar Slytherin sat in a crowded, dusty study, filled with books, scrolls and fascinating oddities, their easy companionship clear for all to see.

Draco sat in his favourite worn, comfortable armchair, sipping at his fifth glass of aged Firewhisky, and wondered bitterly where the two Founders went wrong, how such trust and friendship had turned to enmity. The soft rushing sound of the sea was still loud in his ears, the taste of empty hatred like ashes in his mouth.

"I've always wondered," a warm, rich voice spoke, jarring him out of his self-pity. "Why that portrait? I mean, this club must be the last haven of Slytherin privilege and prejudice."

Ginny Weasley sat down in the chair opposite him, her bright copper hair a stark contrast to her Auror's robes. He drew in his breath, drew in the faint scent of her perfume. Something in him stirred, and he squashed it ruthlessly. Whatever they might once have had, it was over, long years ago.

"The artist was one of the 18th century Malfoy wives," Draco answered, deliberately diverting himself. "When her husband established the club – using her money, mind you – she insisted that her paintings hang on the walls in perpetuity."

"Huh. I should have guessed this would be a Malfoy stronghold. Is there anything you don't own or have a major share in?"

His eyes flicked to hers. He said nothing.

She winced. "Right. I'm sorry. I heard about the raid. Sometimes Harry and Ron can be a little overzealous…"

The Ministry searchers had turned the manor upside down and inside out, destroying priceless antiquities, terrorising the house elves, all but tearing out the walls and ceiling in their eagerness to find the evidence that would incriminate him. They had found absolutely nothing, of course – there had been nothing to find, because Blaise and Pansy were long gone, taking one hundred million of the Ministry's galleons with them.

"You must admit you do make a tempting target, Malfoy."

"Because I refuse to keep my head down and present a low profile, _Weasley_?" His voice was sharp, but with none of the venom of his teens. He was twenty-eight years old, and he was tired: tired of fighting public opinion and prejudice, tired of constantly striving to prove himself trustworthy and acceptable, and tired of apologising for his name and his blood.

"Old hatreds die hard."

He sighed, tossed back the rest of his Firewhisky, revelling in the burn. "And so, it seems, do old loyalties." He was drunk, not quite in control, and his tongue was far too loose. He should have handed Blaise and Pansy over to the Ministry, and taken vindictive satisfaction in Potter's and Weasley's strangled apologies. He should have got up and left, the moment Ginny sat down.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean," he said, standing with great dignity and gathering up his cloak, "it's _not_ better to have loved and lost. No matter what they tell you."

And with that, he made his exit.

* * *

She followed him outside to the street.

"Malfoy!" she called, watching his tall, black-robed figure walk away, only slightly unsteady.

He turned to face her, one eyebrow slightly raised. She refused to be intimidated. She knew him too well to be intimidated. "If you didn't take the money, then who did? What do you mean, old loyalties? You _know_, don't you?"

The air was cold and biting, a dramatic change from the stuffy, smoke-filled club, and Malfoy's slightly glazed eyes began to clear as the Firewhisky haze wore off. He shook his head, no doubt trying to clear his mind. But it was too late – once Ginny latched her teeth into a puzzle, she did not let go.

Her eyes narrowed. "Is this about the Death Eaters? Are they planning a revival?"

"Merlin, no!" The exclamation burst out of him. He dragged his hands through his hair, the sleeves of his robes riding up his forearms, revealing the old, faded outline of his Mark. "That's over and done, finished."

"Then why are you protecting them?"

But this time he only shook his head and turned away.

Refusing to admit defeat, she grabbed onto his arm –

And felt the tearing dislocation as he began his Apparation. She gripped desperately at his robes, trying simply to hold on, to keep herself oriented as the world turned inside out and back again, folding in on itself and taking them with it. Her stomach twisted, her vision blurred, and with a dim sense of panic she realised that she was in danger of splinching herself. She opened her mouth to cry out, and as the thick cloth of his robes slipped through her fingers, she felt his hands grasp her wrists, his grip vice-like, anchoring her to flesh-and-blood reality.

And then the universe righted itself, slowed, and spat them out. When she finally opened her eyes, they stood outside the wrought-iron gates of Malfoy Manor, the moon high in the sky, the stars – far from any kind of Muggle settlement or pollution – the brightest she had ever seen.

Or perhaps it was only relief that she was still alive.

Suddenly, her heart beating double-time, she was very aware of Draco beside her, the warmth of his body, the brush of his robes, the smell of alcohol on his breath, the sheer vitality of his presence. She turned to face him, her breath coming too quickly, her composure shaken and entirely vulnerable. Her eyes were wide, she knew, and this was completely, utterly foolish –

His eyes narrowed slightly, and then dropped to their joined hands, his fingers still wrapped, white-knuckled, around her wrists. Slowly, one finger at a time, he released his grip. The blood rushed back to her hands, leaving the marks of his fingers to stand out stark, unhealthy white – there would be bruises later, she knew, deep and ugly.

She had never been more thankful for it.

"I have to say, Weasley," Draco said, his voice slightly unsteady, "that was one of the stupidest stunts I've ever seen. And believe me, I've witnessed quite a few."

She swallowed. "I don't – I didn't…" She couldn't quite make the words come out right.

He sighed, swore under his breath. "I know. Come on." Reaching out to the enchanted gates, he placed his palm against one of the twisting, decorative knots of iron-work and whispered something she couldn't catch. Instantly, the gates swung open, and Ginny felt the hair-raising feeling of powerful wards parting to let them through.

Dazed, her system still flooded with adrenaline, she trailed after him, their footsteps crunching on the long gravel drive. Slowly, they crested a slight rise, and suddenly the entirety of the estate lay spread out before them: the centuries-old manor house, wreathed in a complex web of spells, curses and enchantments, surrounded by formal gardens that had been left untended and were now going to seed.

It was far from what it once was. The Malfoy fortunes had taken a steep dive after the war, and Lucius Malfoy had barely managed to hold onto the estate – in the years since, Draco had done what he could to build up the family coffers, but post-war wizarding Britain had not been healthy for repentant Death Eaters and former Slytherins.

And so when one hundred million galleons disappeared from the Ministry books, suspicion naturally fell on him.

A thought belatedly occurred to her. She stopped walking, wrapped her arms tightly around herself. "Where are we going?" she whispered hoarsely. "Is this about…"

He turned. "Having just saved your life, Weasley," he drawled, "I'm damned sure not planning to bury your body in the gardens. You were willing to kill yourself to learn about your bloody missing galleons, so I think it's time we talk. Yes?"

And then, as she hesitated, he continued impatiently: "If I'd wanted revenge, Weasley, I'd have let you fall away in-between. On what honour I have left, I _swear_ that no harm will come to you tonight. Is that good enough?"

Slowly, warily, she nodded.

* * *

The house elves brought them tea in the library, where they sat in old, comfortable chairs before the fireplace. The small fire threw shadows over the opulent décor, his Victorian great-grandfather's preference for mahogany and dark red velvet somewhat overpowering.

Draco watched colour and warmth flood back into Ginny's cheeks. She had been alarmingly white after her almost-splinching, shaken and confused; still, she was a Gryffindor, and therefore naturally stubborn and resilient. He could almost see the wheels turning in her mind, weighing the sincerity of his offer to talk, her cool suspicion flooding back now that the first wild flush of adrenaline – and its inevitable side-effects – had subsided.

"So," she began finally, after she had finished her tea, "you said we would talk about the missing galleons."

He made an open gesture with his hand. "Ask."

She frowned, as if she couldn't believe it would be so easy. "Did you steal them?"

"No."

"Then you know who did."

"Yes."

Her eyes narrowed, and she made a dangerous hissing sound. With her copper-red hair, she looked amazingly like a cat that had been stroked the wrong way. "Who stole the Ministry's galleons, Malfoy?"

For a long, timeless moment, he struggled against an old, ingrained sense of Slytherin loyalty. For so long, they had had no one but their fellow housemates, trapped between the Dark Lord's demands and the rest of the world's distrust. Trust, reliance, love, safety, what little they had was found within their own circle –

But the Dark Lord was dead, the war was over, and they had all left Hogwarts long ago.

"Pansy Parkinson and Blaise Zabini needed the money to elope," he said. "The Ministry took everything from them; they thought it fitting. They cast the blame on me, and then left the country as quickly as they could."

"Whatever happened to Slytherin honour?" Clicking her tongue, she shook her head in mock-disappointment. "Some friends you have there, Malfoy."

But he was utterly serious. "They betrayed me." And suddenly he knew it, knew that he had loved them, trusted them, and they had deliberately played on that. He was not his father, but nor would he forgive the betrayal, allow it to go unpunished. "I owe them no loyalty. Not anymore."

Something in his manner sobered her. Slowly, tentatively, she reached out and laid her hand on his arm. He stiffened, but then took her hand in his, turning it over to see the bruises forming on her wrist. His eyes flew to hers, unsure what to say.

Her lips parted. She swallowed. "I'm…ah, I'm sorry, Malfoy. About your friends."

But his mind was no longer on treacherous friends or the Ministry's pardon. Her voice was hoarse, and the pulse in her neck was beating rapidly. He was suddenly very aware that she was very near, very warm, and that her scent was suddenly wreathing all about him, dizzying and intoxicating. And then she was in his arms, her mouth soft and sweet under his, his hands in her hair releasing that glorious copper-red silk, and for the first time in years he knew that this was what he wanted, what he _needed_ –

His hands slid down her back, gripping the black Auror robes, dragging her closer, closer, until they were locked against each other and straining, the kiss turned hot and savage. Her nails dug into his shoulders, demanding, and they tumbled onto the thick Persian carpet, Ginny underneath him, gloriously soft and open.

And then he dragged himself away, untangled himself, physically stepped back from her and the maddening temptation of her willingness.

"No," he panted, "no, stop. This isn't…" he thrust his hand through his hair, tugged, and tried to bring himself back to sanity.

Her eyes were dark, confused, betrayed. "What…? Don't you want to –?"

"Of course I want –" he cut himself off savagely. "You almost _died,_ Ginny, not two hours ago. You're still riding the adrenaline rush."

She drew herself up, indignant, but he held up his hand. "It would be taking advantage. And I swore that no harm would come to you tonight."

She stood up slowly, straightened her robes with unnecessary force. Her eyes met his squarely, her lips thinned and a look of great determination came over her face. "You swore that no harm would come to me _tonight._"

Warily, Draco nodded. He had a feeling he knew exactly where this was headed.

"Well then," she said, smiling dangerously. "Ask me in the morning."

* * *


	14. Nine Tenths

**A/N - Written for silveredaccents in the Fall 2008 dgficexchange. **

**Disclaimer - I don't own HP, any of the canon characters, settings or situations. **

* * *

**Nine Tenths**

* * *

"…And here is the famous portrait of Artaxis Malfoy, the murderous 15th century baron. It was painted by Carolus Durër the Mad, who mixed the subject's own blood in with his paints to exponentially enhance the portrait's animation. Don't worry, ladies and gentlemen, there are extensive layers of wards placed on it to ensure that he can no longer free himself from the canvas…"

In truth, Ginny thought, it was probably a very good thing that there were such strong wards about Draco's great-great-however-many greats-grandfather. If the cold fury in old Artaxis' eyes was anything to go by, he would incinerate her on the spot if he had even the slightest freedom of movement.

They all would, the so-illustrious ancestors hanging in Malfoy Manor's well-stocked portrait gallery. They stared down at her with their haughty, over-bred faces and their Malfoy grey eyes, disdain and contempt in every line of their painted forms. Well, damn them, and Draco as well –

The Manor was hers, now, and she could do whatever she damn well pleased with it.

Just then, there was a tremendous crash.

Ginny whirled around to see a priceless Ming vase that had been in the family for three hundred years lying in shattered pieces on the carpeted floor, a young, sullen-faced boy trying to hide his hands behind his back.

"…Jeremy!" his red-faced, flustered mother exclaimed. "Come here, right now! How many times have I told you to stay put and keep your hands to yourself?"

"I didn't touch it!" the boy protested. "Honest!"

His mother turned apologetically to Ginny. "I'm terribly sorry, Ms Weasley," she babbled, "he's not normally like this. Naturally I'll pay for the damage…"

Judging by Artaxis Malfoy's white-faced fury, if he had his way, the boy and his mother would indeed pay for the damage, and in their own blood. The other portraits clearly agreed.

Ginny forced herself to smile.

****

Outside the luxurious London flat, it was mid-morning and the day was in full swing. But inside, the heavy curtains were drawn across the windows, and the silencing charms on the walls and windows preserved a hushed, glorious silence. Sprawled unshaven and half-naked across his huge bed, Draco Malfoy lay dead to the world, a half-empty bottle of Ogden's firewhisky still in one hand. The whole room reeked of alcohol and smoke.

Pansy Zabini stood at the foot of the bed and watched him in disgust. "Wake up, you drunken git," she snapped, poking at his shoulder with her wand.

He groaned, swatted at her, and went back to sleep.

"Wake up!" she repeated. "Merlin's balls, Malfoy, sometimes I wonder why I put up with you." Exasperated, she waved her wand and dumped a bucketful of ice-cold water over him. He shot up with an outraged yowl, sputtering and cursing furiously.

"What the bloody hell was that for, you crazy bint?" he snarled, glaring at her through his sodden white-fair hair. It had grown out since the divorce – he hadn't been taking care of himself.

"Dragging you back to the real world, Draco. You've wallowed in your self-pity long enough."

"The real world can go straight to hell, and you with it, Pansy. I couldn't give a damn."

"Not even about your precious Manor?" She threw something down on the bed beside him, her dark eyes challenging. "Do you know what _she's_ done to it?"

For the first time, his eyes focused and she thought she saw a glimpse of the old Draco. "What do you mean, what she's done to it?" Clutching his head, he picked up the item she'd thrown down on the bed – an eye-catching, professionally designed tourism brochure.

"Look," Pansy ordered him, watching his expression intently as he read through the information describing the latest, most exclusive tourism attraction – Malfoy Manor, the oldest fully inhabited pureblood stronghold in wizarding Britain. Pictures flowed across the pamphlet, revealing glimpses of gorgeous stone architecture and sculpted gardens, luxurious bedchambers and ancient dungeons.

Slowly, his face white and taut, he crumpled the brochure in his fist, and then deliberately tore it into tiny pieces.

"_Bitch,"_ he snarled under his breath.

****************

The bitch had put up anti-apparation wards. Draco discovered this too late, as he found himself forcibly thrust out of the in-between and back into the real world right at the ancient borders of the estate, full three miles from the gates of the Manor. Cursing, he picked himself up off the grass and set off on foot, fuelled by his furious reaction to the thought of his ancestral home turned into a tourist attraction for mudbloods and muggle-lovers.

Every inch of the ground he crossed was familiar to him. He knew this land as he did no other place on earth – it was _his¸_ and had been since the moment of his birth. No biased, muggle-loving judges could take it away from him and hand it on a platter to _her_ – _she_ had not earned the right to own this land, simply because he'd so lost his head over her he hadn't thought of a prenuptial agreement.

The gates opened at his command. No man – or wizard – made lock could keep him out of his own ancestral stronghold. As he stormed up the gravel pathway to the Manor house, he automatically catalogued the changes that had taken place since the supposed change in ownership: the garden had been cleared of the more dangerous carnivorous plants, and most of the deadly security wards his ancestors had woven into the very stone had been disabled.

It was _safe_, now, the hint of danger and excitement, stripped of true reality.

Just before he reached the front steps, the great, iron-bound oak door swung open to reveal her. Tall, proud, her glorious red hair a banner of defiance as she glared at him –

Ginny.

"Malfoy," she stated with absolute loathing. "I thought I told you never to come back here."

"You can't stop me from returning, Weasley. This is _my _land –"

"According to the Ministry, it's mine, Draco. And your ancient pureblood rights don't mean a damned thing anymore – the world has changed, and the old magics are dead."

"Old magics never die. You're tolerated here, because you are my wife –"

"_Ex_-wife!"

The air crackled with furious tension, humming with bitter recriminations and accusations even six months on.

"Do you hate me so much?" he asked, finally. "I thought you understood, when I first told you – there are responsibilities that I can never lay down."

She sighed. "I never hated you, Draco. I only wish I could have loved your name."

He shook his head. "I can't deny who and what I am, Ginny. Not even for you."

There was no grand exit, not when he had to turn around and walk back to the boundary of the estate before he could make his escape. But the silence rang in his ears, and he was aware of her eyes on him, watching him, for long minutes afterwards as he walked away.

*******

"Well, really," Pansy drawled, "what did you expect?" Her perfectly manicured fingernails, painted screaming red, tapped impatiently on the side of her cocktail glass. "He's a _Malfoy, _darling. Themost conservative of pureblood families –"

They were in the latest fashionable bar on Diagon Alley. Pansy had flatly refused to set foot on the Malfoy estate once Ginny had begun her conversions – she claimed that she could hear the Malfoy ancestors rolling in their graves, and had no wish to incur their wrath.

Ginny knocked back a shot of Firewhisky and suppressed the urge to silence those tap-tap-tapping nails. Sometimes it was very hard to remember why she tolerated Pansy's cut-glass drawl and insufferable Slytherin superiority.

"I did warn you when you and Draco first began your affair," Pansy continued. "But you were both completely lost to any sort of reason."

Oh, yes. Because of all Draco's and Ginny's close friends, Pansy and Blaise had been among the very few who had nottried to talk them out of their mad romance.

"So you did," Ginny agreed with very little grace. "And so we were. But that's all finished now."

"It won't be finished until he regains his Manor, Ginny. There have been Malfoys there for thousands of years. How would you feel if your family was thrown out of the Burrow and strangers took it for their own?"

Ginny fought back a wave of instant denial. The very concept was unthinkable.

"It's not the same," she snapped. "I have a right to half of everything –"

"Yes, I know." Pansy cut her off impatiently. "But not _that _half. Couldn't you have just taken all his money?"

"He wouldn't have cared about the money," Ginny said starkly, aware, even as she said it, of just how much she was revealing.

Pansy was silent for a moment. "You know," she went on after a while, "this kind of thing used to happen all the time in the bad old days. Estates being seized. Widows' families taking over the late husbands' assets. Heiresses abducted and forced to marry ugly old men. So much so, in fact, that they came up with a spell to determine true ownership of the land –"

"Uh-uh." Immediately on her guard, Ginny shook her head emphatically. "No, Pansy. No ancient spells. Especially not pureblooded ones."

"Oh, come on, Ginny, what have you got to worry about? If the land is yours, it's yours, and if it's backed up by this spell, no court in the wizarding world will ever dispute your right of ownership."

"No court in the wizarding world will dispute my right of ownership now. A full hearing of the Wizengamot ruled in my favour."

"Hah. They were biased and everyone knows it." She held up a hand to forestall Ginny's objections. Besides," her eyes glittered, "the spell hasn't been used for centuries. Merlin knows what's become of it in the meantime. It probably won't even work."

Pansy's eyes gleamed with mischief, daring, and pure challenge. Ginny knew better than to accept the thinly disguised dare. But she was a Gryffindor, from a long, long line of Gryffindors.

She was helpless to resist.

********************

Pansy whispered, and the guttural syllables spread like ripples in the fabric of reality.

Ginny's eyes widened and her heart began to pound, the whirling force of the old, old magic dragging her down, pulling her under.

Distantly, she was aware of Draco, stirring, his silver-grey eyes flying to hers.

The spell claimed them both.

********************

Draco felt the magic unfold before it took him, had some suspicion of what was occurring before he was summarily jerked away from reality and plunged into a dream. He had half-heard the ancient spell that Pansy had invoked, tugging at a distant memory of childhood history lessons –

And so he was not greatly surprised to find himself on a high hill overlooking Malfoy Manor. The land unfolded before him, the patchwork of fields and forest, the winding silver river, the great fortress overlooking it all.

And nor was he surprised, when he turned around, to see his ex-wife, her red hair wildly tousled, her dark eyes filled with dismay, suspicion, and a dawning curiosity.

"Mind telling me what this is about, Malfoy?" she asked.

"You know as much as I do, I think," he retorted.

"I thought you Slytherins knew all the deep, dark pureblooded secrets." Her tone was scornful and accusing.

Draco drew in a deep breath, fought for patience. "Not this one, it seems," he managed to say, as mildly as he could.

Before the conversation could degenerate any further, a breath of cold wind stirred the air, teasing the edges of his robes, setting her hair dancing around her. The swirling wind intensified, momentarily, and then died down with a long, drawn-out sigh –

And then the ghosts appeared: white-haired Malfoy ancestors, iron-fisted conquerors who took the land with their magic, ambition and ruthless strength; the older, darker people who had come before them, with their fathomless black eyes and ancient, primitive wisdom.

"…_Ssstate your casssse…" _the ghosts whispered, their eldritch tones enough to send a shiver down Draco's spine. _"We will decccide itssss worth…"_

Ginny opened her mouth, but thought better of what she was going to say. She remained silent, and Draco noticed that she drew closer to him.

"_You have called ussss," _the ghosts continued. _"Ssspeak."_ They began to stir and swirl, as though angry to be summoned for no reason.

Draco could see no other alternative. He began.

"My name is Draco Malfoy," he said finally. "I am the son of Lucius Malfoy, direct descendent of Brandon himself." As he spoke, he could see the ghosts of his ancestors nodding in approval.

"_Blood isss not enough," _the old, dark ones moaned.

"I was born on this land," Draco continued. "I was raised here, spent my childhood running wild over this land."

"_Familiarity issss not enough. We, too, knew and loved thisss land…"_

"I have shed blood in its defence. I have made the sacrifice, kept all the rituals, upheld all the ancient bargains. And it was taken away from me on a whim, by a spiteful impulse." Draco cut himself off, aware of the rage and bitterness bubbling up inside of him.

It was not focused on Ginny, no, no matter what she had done to his home. Rather, he was angry at the wizarding council who had been so delighted at the thought of punishing him, so eager to turn against him simply because he was rich, influential and pureblooded.

Ginny's anger, at least, had been born in the bitter train wreck that was their divorce. That, he could understand.

Again, he had the impression that the ghosts were mocking him. But they turned their uncomfortable attention away from him and onto Ginny.

"_And you?" _they asked. _"Sssspeak your claim."_

"I married him in good faith," Ginny said simply. "He broke his word, and I was granted compensation. I didn't grow up here, and I know nothing about sacrifices or rituals, but I took on the responsibilities as best I could…"

The Malfoy ghosts stirred restlessly.

_"And that issss all?"_

Ginny lifted her hands, shrugged. "There's really nothing else to say."

Draco cleared his throat. "And when you have…decided," he asked, "what happens then?"

The ghosts turned their blank, fathomless stares to him. "_Our choicccce will be granted possssesssion," _they said. _"The other issss named usssurper, and judged accordingly….."_

***************

Ever afterwards, Ginny was never able to recall exactly what happened after that point. She remembered a confused impression of Draco protesting, the ghosts enraged and roaring, and a sense of shocked desperation. She remembered that Draco had grabbed her, instinctive and protective, and surrounded by his familiar warmth and scent she had let herself believe, even for a moment, that he would keep her safe –

And then she woke, in her bed in the master suite of the Manor, to see Draco watching her keenly, his eyes troubled and guarded.

"Congratulations," she managed. "I guess it's all yours now."

His mouth twisted. "For what it's worth. The ancestors were none too pleased when I refused to hand you over."

"Why didn't you?" It would have solved all his problems at once.

"You know why I didn't," he said, his voice quiet and careful. She reached out to take his hand, and he bowed his head, his white-fair hair falling into his eyes, concealing his expression. "Not at that price," he whispered. "Not if it means losing you."

She laughed weakly. "I never thought I'd hear you say that."

"I never thought I'd say it." His grip on her hand tightened, as though he could not bear to release her. "Ginny," he began cautiously, "I do love you. I always have. But I'd never realised, until now, just how very much –"

He broke off. She did not push him any further. They left it at that.

For the moment, at least.

Later, perhaps, when the events of the day were not quite so raw, they would talk. And then they would see what they could do to sort out the mess.

***********

Fin

***********


	15. The Defector

**A/N - A long time ago, I promised random00b a ficlet set before Duty Bound. This is more of a drabble, but still, I hope you like it.**

**Disclaimer - I don't own HP, any of the canon settings, characters or situations. Don't sue.**

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* * *

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**The Defector**

* * *

It was a small room, intimate; everything – the lights, the décor, the furnishings – all designed to make him comfortable, to make him feel more disposed to talk. They'd probably gone through his entire life with a fine-toothed comb, pouring over the minutiae of his hates, his loves, his preferences with obsessive attention to detail, searching for levers, weaknesses, and clues to his psyche.

Though he could not see them, he knew there were always, _always_ watchers, analysing everything he did and did not do, looking for significance in every look, word and gesture.

And every day, _she _came.

**

He was brooding today, she saw as she came in the door and hung up her scarf and coat. His face was solemn and unreadable, his eyes dark and sullen. His fingers drummed restlessly on the wooden side-table as he contemplated a game of solitary wizard's chess – white was winning, she noted, committing it to her trained, photographic memory.

She wondered what the analysts would make of it.

"Good morning, Malfoy," she said, dropping into the chair across from him.

He paused, deliberately, and then lifted his eyes to hers. "Weasley," he said curtly, before turning his attention back to the game.

She drew in a deep breath, let it out slowly. There were times when she thought the Unspeakables had made a mistake in sending her in to gain Malfoy's trust. There was too much history between them; it was almost impossible to handle him with calm, cool composure.

Draco Malfoy had been one of the Dark Lord's most trusted lieutenants before, for reasons he had, as yet, refused to divulge, he made the decision to defect. In his initial approach to the Order he had struck a devil's bargain with Moody: full pardon and political sanctuary in return for every drop of information he possessed.

And so this comfortably furnished prison, where every word and movement was analysed, and Ginny herself, wizarding psychologist, who was supposed to unlock the secrets behind his veiled, unreadable eyes.

So far she had made little progress. But she did know one thing, after weeks of close observation: Malfoy would talk when he was ready, and not a moment before. And there was nothing she or anyone else could do that would make him change his mind.

**

"So?" he asked, not looking up from the chess-board before him. "What shall we discuss today?" He could _feel_ her eyes on him, measuring and calculating. The woman was almost Slytherin, sometimes, in the way she watched him, filing away every single detail of their encounters.

"What are you willing to tell me?" she parried. "And you will have to tell me _something_, Malfoy. Moody is growing impatient."

He sat back in his chair, finally abandoning his game. "You'll have to do better than that, Ginevra. You've no other convenient sources of information."

"You've been out of the game for nearly two months. Stale information –"

"– is better than none, at such a high level."

Her eyes sparked, but she restrained her notorious Weasley temper with admirable control. "It is in your best interests to co-operate, _Draco_."

He merely stared at her.

"What do you _want_?" she asked finally.

At last.

Draco smiled.

**************


End file.
